


A D'Omas Soldier in King Valois' Court

by docmatoi



Series: Von ZinzerGift [2]
Category: Girl Genius (Webcomic)
Genre: Dreen-Gift, Gen, Girl Genius Event Week 2019, Von Zinzer Brothers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2020-12-15 19:29:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21023219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/docmatoi/pseuds/docmatoi
Summary: Robert Von Zinzer, the least famous Dreen Gift.Timothea Turner, quite probably the most famous.History would never say that they met.But in one pant leg of the trousers of time...





	1. Impact

**Author's Note:**

  * For [themysteriousinternetentity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/themysteriousinternetentity/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Twists and Turns of Fate](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16465526) by [themysteriousinternetentity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/themysteriousinternetentity/pseuds/themysteriousinternetentity). 

> I'm annoyed by how much I don't like this. I keep thinking its too short, its not good enough, it doesnt convey the omagery I want it to...  
but Timmie likes it and thats what matters here.  
Written for GG Event Week 2019, Day 7: Niche Crossover  
It's a crossover of a niche fanfic with another, even nicher fanfic that both use the same niche concept. I think that fits, yeah?

“Jump imminent!”

“What? We’re not ready!”

“Don’t look at me, it’s not like I decide this shit!”

“All hands to Jump stations!”

“Speed steady at 80 kilometers an hour.”

“Seven League Boot confirms Jump. Destination is, uh…. Paris? I think that’s Paris.”

“Jumping in five, four, three, two, one, Jumpi- BRACE FOR IMPACT!”

“Wha-”

**-THOOM-**

* * *

In the depths of a keep, a metallic hand dealt three cards: the Oracle, The Wanderer, and the Sentinel Reversed.

* * *

Timothea Turner, Dreen-Gift, associate of Rembrandt van Rijn, wife of Simon Voltaire, and member of the court of Andronicus Valois. The woman who advanced lab safety procedures by centuries, and chemical science Were you to ask any historian about her demeanor, they would call her cool, collected, and devoted to her cause. Some days, it was even true.

Today was not one of those days. For numerous reasons, the Lady Timothea was  _ this _ close to going on an absolute rampage. Van Rijn was in top abrasive form, Simon was nowhere to be seen, the court was agitating the latest warhawkery, and  **-THOOM-** and her latest attempt at volatiles distillation had been disrupted -rather explosively- by a building-shaking tremor.

That. Was. It! Timothea was fed up! She was going to find whoever had just  _ ruined four days of work _ and  _ turn them inside out! _ She stormed out of her laboratory and down into the courtyard, her anger simmering up as she stepped outside-

Only to realize that she wasn’t the only one looking to retaliate. Right in front of the door, Andronicus Valois, the Storm King himself, stood among a group of his bodyguards, who a person from another timeline might call his ‘brute squad.’ He was clearly in a particularly egalitarian mood today, as he was actually taking suggestions from them. Said suggestions were emblematic of the kind of men His Grace put in his bodyguards, roughly distilling into “This is an attack, let us respond with violence.” 

Unfortunately, as all of these men were roughly as wide as they were tall, their position meant Timothea couldn’t actually see what they were talking about. Sidling her way through the crowd to the side of the man who would unite Europa, she beheld- 

* * *

-a catastrophe. That was what Moloch saw. Robert had tried to explain the Jumps to him once, how they shifted him and, thanks to some courtesy by the Dreen in charge of him, the walking gunboat  _ Vienna 707 _ across time and space, to wherever They decided Robert would best serve their plans, to rescue some other Dreen Gift who was in trouble, or to ensure security of the blah blah blah (this part is where Robert usually started getting twitchy, so no one pushed him on it). The point was, the jumps involved blinking out of existence in one spot and appearing somewhere else instantly, with no loss of speed. The Seven League Boot system given to them by a grateful sparky Gift let them estimate where they were about to land, but it required a certain amount of speed. They’d been lucky so far over the few months that they’d been Jumping, to not have hit anything big enough to stop them.

That luck appeared to have finally run out. Whatever had been in the way had stopped them  _ hard _ , and a look around the center cabin revealed just how hard. There was smoke coming from the drive compartment, probably going to have to replace the whole thing from parts. The main guns had been broken out of their mounts, sending them crashing to the floor, one of them pinning Bruno’s leg. Omar and Temeluchus had been thrown from the gun deck into a wall, and weren’t moving from their position on the floor. Gehenna and Solomon had both managed to brace in time, so they were nursing what looked like dislocated shoulders. And a cursory wiggle confirmed that Moloch’s leg was broken and bleeding heavily. No sight of Esther or Robert, and Mammon was up front, probably.

Right. Damage control time. Step one: Complain, and inspire others to complain. “Saints and sparks, what did we hit, Baron Wulfenbach? Who’s not dead yet?”

* * *

Timothea heard nothing as all the king’s horse’s asses and all the king’s men worked on convincing him that this was clearly the work of the Heterodyne, and that therefore a cannon salvo would be a fine first response. Instead, she listened to the voice inside of her that said  _ You know this, _ and thought back to her Home-That-Was. To automobiles and highways and high speed crashes, to the years that seatbelts and airbags and crumple zones were actually invented, to casualty statistics higher than most wars. To discussions in Sociology 101 about Bystander Syndrome.

All her anger melted away, and the confidence of one who is unkillable mixed with concern for those who are not to create a solution called Action. And then she heard the blaggards around her hoping to stab the victims and loot the wreck like salvage at sea and the anger came rushing back.

“Imbeciles! Witless bandits! Have you no shame? Make yourselves useful and bring me my medical bags!” And, ignoring the voice of the King calling her back, Timothea strode towards the wreckage.

Timothea was no mechanist, to look at a machine and instantly understand its purpose, but something about the vehicle- a walker of some kind- struck her as familiar, and she was able to find an entry hatch undamaged by the crash. After struggling with the wheel, she heaved it open.

A body fell out of the side of the walker and hit the ground, thankfully with a grunt of pain. Pain is good, pain means she can do something. She rolled the man onto his back and grimaced at the blood seeping down his face. His pupils were dilated as well- concussion. Timothea tried to get him talking.

“Monsieur? Monsieur, can you understand me?” Further groaning as the man tried to focus on her words and her face. She switched to English, “Do you speak English, sir? Can you hear me? Can you tell me your name?”

The man perked up at that. “Ja, I speak. My brother speak more good.” His eyes were still wild and dilated, but he was clearly at least a little lucid. “My name Mammon.”

“Mammon? I am Timothea. I need you to stay here and rest. Can you do that for me?”

“But- My- my brothers-”

“Shhh. I know. I’ll go find them.” And with that, Mammon subsided, apparently worn out with the effort of talking.

One concussion, triaged. Time to get the rest.

* * *

“The rest” turned out to be seven men, all in varying states of injury. Two knocked out cold with broken limbs who’d slammed into a wall. Bandages and splints. Two pairs of dislocated shoulders from a poorly chosen brace. Painkillers and an assisted relocation for each from their brothers. Heavy contusions and broken limbs from a fallen gun. Rugged splinting. Two legs with compound fractures, exacerbated by the recipient having crawled around trying to roll the gun off the brother caught beneath it. Bandaging, painkillers, more splinting. One  _ boy _ (for that was what he was, despite everyone’s immediate insistence that he was 76 years old and young for his age) with multiple broken ribs. Tight bandages and a recommendation to keep the chest still.

It was good that one of the meatheads had actually listened and fetched her bags, because she was going to need everything in them. No one person was a crisis situation, but with all but two completely out of commission for one reason or another, if someone hadn’t been here to help them, they’d have likely all eight of them died of their injuries.

* * *

Elsewhere on the boat, the ninth brother groaned as he recovered from his own ordeal.


	2. Disorientation

Robert was in pitch dark. That wasn’t a good sign. Most spaces on  _ Vienna 707 _ , except the bunkroom, were lit at all hours of the day, for safety. Robert had been the one to practically mandate that. (Okay, really, he guilted everyone into accepting it and working on it because he had his sensibilities from Home-That-Was and  _ apparently _ no one here cared if you crack your head on a wall in the middle of the night but  _ whatever. _ ) 

So. Dark. Why the  _ hell _ was it dark? He was definitely still on the boat, he’d recognize that Hofmeister Engine thrumming anywhere- which meant the power wasn’t out. He wasn’t in his bunk- no matter how much Omar complained that his bunk was like sleeping on the deckplates, this was definitely an actual deckplate he was laying on. So if the power wasnt out, he hadnt woken up in his bunk, and the lights were still out, then why? There were lights in every space on the boat accessible to huma-

Ah, hell.

* * *

Moloch Von Zinzer, beloved brother, mechanic, idiot wrangler and current possessor of two (2) legs (broken), looked up as the knights hauled Bruno out of the boat. He wasn’t able to walk out under his own power, and the words of their very own angel of mercy, (in between yelling at the help to  _ be gentle _ ) were that only time would tell as to whether that would be permanent without Sparkwork. Which appeared to be the story all around- his own twice-snapped legs were nothing compared to Esther’s battered ribcage. He wouldn’t be able to play the trumpet for weeks.

Thank goodness.

Speaking of their savior, she was looking over the wreckage of the  _ Vienna _ with a curious look on her face. She had given her name as Timothea, and had gone off to do triage without asking his name in return. But now, after staring at the crunched bow of the gunboat, she was coming back over, cleanly schooling her face into professionalism. Moloch could appreciate a good business face, so he reciprocated and adopted a surly expression as he drew up all the English he’d ever learned out of his brain.

“Sir? That’s everyone, so I’m going to need you to tell me what exactly happened.” 

Something about this particularly scruffy man was familiar. Now, the others she’d treated had all  _ seemed  _ familiar, like a second cousin you’ve never met in person, but this one gave off an aura of  _ deja vu  _ beyond them. If Timmie had to describe it, she’d say he felt like a ne’er-do-well uncle she hadn’t seen in years.

He scratched his chin. “What happened? Well, we ran into your, uh-” here he craned his neck upward for a view, “Castle? Yes, that’s a castle.”

Timothea was not impressed. “Thank you for noticing. What I have to ask is how you didn’t notice it  _ before _ ?” The Castle of the Lightning Court was the tallest landmark for miles around, notwithstanding all the things they would have had to dodge to get here…

Such as the eyes of the men on the walls. “As a matter of fact, that’s something I’d very much like to know. How  _ did _ you hit the castle without seeing it… or us seeing you? Your… vehicle... is rather conspicuous.” Understatement of the decade. The bipedal walker looked far in advance of anything she’d heard of from the front lines, which meant they  _ might _ not be Heterodyne agents, but then again,  _ Sparks _ and  _ Heterodyne.  _

_ In fact… _ “Just who do you work for, anyway?”

* * *

“Where the hell are those bastards?”

* * *

The anxious look on the man’s face told Timothea that she’d hit the nail on the head. “I cannot say.”

Timmie’s response was a thoughtful hum, followed with “Physically can’t, or you aren’t allowed?” Which drew a pained grimace and a sigh from her subject. 

“No. I am just not the one to explain it. Anglish not good enough.”

Well. Wasn’t that just convenient. Timmie scowled. “Your brothers are all unconscious or dopey with concussion and painkillers. You’re the best by default.” To accentuate the point, she gestured over at the shaded hillock where the other passengers of the gunboat had been deposited in a heap. 

But the vagrantish man only looked over, seemingly counting, and said “No. One of my brothers is not here. Did you see him insa- insi- in the boat?.”

What. “You mean there’s still someone on board?”

“Yes. Do not worry, he is very...um, big arms?”

“Strong?”  
“Strong, yes, I know that for truth. But if he has not come by now… May I walk, doctor?”

What. “Um. I... would not recommend it.”

“Then get one of your sides of beef to carry me. I must find my little brother.”

_ What? _

* * *

The king had been watching her exchange, though far enough away to give her some semblance of privacy. He wasted no time. Timmie admired that about him some days. “What do you have?”

“Only one of them is lucid enough to answer questions, and his English is heavily limited. He claims there is another brother still inside who speaks it better, and has asked to be carried inside to look for him.”

“Normally you’d just ask someone to help you do just that.” the question of  _ Why not this time _ did not need to be said.

“His accent is Germanic, the vehicle is highly advanced, he's cagey about how they got here, and he says that his errant brother is ‘Very Strong.’”

“You think this ninth brother is some Heterodyne monstrosity.”

“I don’t fully believe that, but... I have many questions that I wish to ask this mystery brother, and ‘Heterodyne‘ would answer several of them and ask several more.”

“Very well. Lionel! Richard! Farrokh! Escort Lady Timothea inside, and bring her guide as well.”

* * *

Moloch watched the noblewoman speak to a man who was clearly the local autocrat, and worried. He did this quite a lot, but nobody ever said so to his face. The suspicious glares being shot his way by the armored sides of beef did not help. 

Clearly something he’d said had made them cagey. They were near Paris, so maybe they recognized the Hofmeister gunboat? The guy had made a  _ lot _ of enemies in the short time he was in charge. But that didn’t make sense either. She’d said the boat was ‘conspicuous’, not ‘recognizable’. Those meant different things, right?

Whatever. Robert spoke the best English out of all of them, even if he had that weird accent from the place he was before. He’d explain just what he was and how they got here, and everything would be fine. Probably. Maybe. He hoped.

Those glares were getting pretty worrying...


	3. Triage

Ser Farrokh Bulsara, nephew to Duke Valen of Cordoba and bodyguard to the King of Lightning by the Grand Treaty of Alliance, was highly on edge. He, of course, would follow his King into the jaws of the High Heterodyne themself, but such courage was not the absence of fear. Fear was the soil in which courage sprouted.

To follow the King’s leashed Fate into what may be a den of Heterodyne horror provided ample soil. To keep his features unmuddied in front of his brother-knights, he wrestled a scowl onto his visage and aimed it at the other member of their fel band- the yet-nameless passenger of the great machine they were entering. He spoke in the harsh barbaric tongue of the far east, his hair grew as wild brambles upon his chin, he reeked of aqua vita, sweat, and armor oil, and his clothing was torn, stained, and otherwise uncared for. The only redeeming quality Farrokh could see was his stoic demeanor, despite being surrounded by enemies and afflicted with broken legs.

So of course Farrokh had to stand right behind him as Lionel carried him. With the man’s reek wafting directly into his nostrils, he decided that the man had learned his lesson from the scowling at his back and looked elsewhere. They had yet to enter the battered hulk, but even from the outside Farrokh could see its alien nature, unlike anything he had ever seen put together by a fikromancer. The plausibility of it being a creation of the Great Beasts of the East was evident- it belched smoke from a great pipe in its middle, and emitted an unnatural hum. At a direction from the guide, Ser Richard pulled open a door that yawned and smoked like a portal to the underworld.

* * *

The wreck somehow looked even worse without injured men lying around like a field hospital. Timothea assumed that was because the situation was less urgent and she was able to properly focus on the devastation, but that didn't help when she could see that she was picking her way through someone's  _ house.  _

Everything was scattered over the floor, but despite the occasional weapon, most of the debris Timothea saw was the scattered detritus of life. Some metal plates, with food still smeared on them. A small keg, leaking something alcoholic. What looked like a balalaika, smashed against a wall. A calendar, dated 1890. A bookshelf, formerly strapped to the wall. A toolbox, spanners and drivers scattered all over the floor-

Wait. 1890?

As their guide went around on Lionel’s back, thumping on the walls, Timothea took advantage of their distraction to investigate closer. Panels flashed in her head, information that long been irrelevant coming back to her. Windows. Take-Five. Mega Dreen. An as yet undefined future Agatha. Weighing all of the possibilities. Something somewhen has gone very, very wrong. And that wasn’t even getting into _whatever the hell_ _Lucrezia Mongfish’s deal was, anyway,_ and _oh no,_ now this was _her_ eldritch responsibility, wasn’t it? She could picture the Dreen now, ‘Oh someone is messing with time? Just chuck them at Timothea, she’s not doing anything important. Ask? Pfft, who does that?’

In an attempt to disrupt the panic before it could show on her face (court life did wonders for one’s poker face, but there were limits), she reached down for the fallen calendar to take a closer look. If this walker really was from the future, she might be able to find something out about its owners.

Timothea looked through the calendar. And promptly dropped it again, her face flaming. Well. She’d found out that whichever of the walker pilots bought the  _ Zagreb Gone Wild 1889 _ commemorative calendar, they were certainly… equal opportunity. She was pondering if the evident advances in construct biology meant anything important, when she was blessedly distracted by a shout from the… time traveler. That felt very strange to say when not referencing herself.

* * *

So the stuffed shirt lady hadn’t found anyone else when she was doing her Florentine Nightprowler routine, which meant Moloch had to think of just where Robert could have gone in the middle of a crashing walker. Step one would have been to check under the deckplates, but all the stomping around the brute squad was doing made that unnecessary- if his occasionally intangible brother was under there, he’d have heard and made some noise by now. Probably. Which was a shame, because the deckplates could be removed with no tools but ones thews. 

Unlike the walls, which were step two, and luckily for everyone involved, he didn’t have to move on to step three. The wall between the bunkroom and the central cabin had about 4 feet square of dead space in it, and a knock of “Spark Wants A Haircut” got the traditional two-beat “Whose Hair?” back. So unless someone  _ else _ who could be intangible was on board, Robert was in there. Shame he couldn’t float his way out, or however it actually worked. Luckily, the  _ Vienna 707  _ came prepared for a lot of possibilities, impossibilities, implausibilities, and anatomical improbabilities. For example, on-the-go removal of broken parts, whether the parts wanted to be removed or not. 

“Hey! Sword head! Take me to the back! I need tools!”

* * *

Walls of steel and the reek of smoke and grease. There could be no doubt now, this was some sorcerous devilry of the Heterodynes. And the supposed "tool" his charge had retrieved was no different. It vaguely resembled the stock of a crossbow, with a pair of bifurcated horns on the end that would not be out of place on one of the bound demons that bayed at the end of Clemethious Heterodyne’s long leash. And as Lionel set the man down, he did…  _ something _ , and the space between the horns began to glow with a bright and blasphemous energy, and the air filled with a piercing otherworldly hum. With a glance over at Lady Timothea (who was already watching with obvious interest), Lionel let the man be, as he took the heretical tool to the wall and…

...Melted steel faster than a forge. By god, what a horrific weapon that could be. To pierce armor that easily? And in the hands of the Heterodynes? He would have to tell His Majesty as soon as possible! This was far more nefarious than any of them had predicted!

* * *

Moloch methodically guided the cutter around into a circular... _ ish _ hole, big enough for a man to squeeze through. He could have made it bigger, but that would have taken longer, and with the gunboat as wrecked as it was, he wasn’t going to trust that all the sparkwork that made it at least partly self sufficient was still intact. Old Hofmeister built his stuff rugged, but he probably didn’t account for faceplanting it into a stone wall at 80 kilometers an hour. 

...Probably.

As the protoplasm cutter finished its arc, Moloch put his hand on the resultant circle of detached 7mm-thick steel and lightly shoved. With its bonds to the rest of the wall severed, the plate gave very little resistance and fell to the floor inside the dead space. Moloch put his face down to the hole. And Shouted.

* * *

“BUNA DIMINEATA!”

And as the man fell away from the fist now protruding from the hole, Timothea looked inside herself, trying and failing to find some sympathy. Really, he’d just been asking for that. The hand looked pretty regular, which didn't rule out "Jager" but did make it less likely. The diatribe that came out of the hole, on the other hand…

Language can be a strange and persistent thing in sapient minds. This is true in both the “real world” (a stunningly unprovable adjective, if one thought about it) and The World Ruled (Badly) By Mad Science. Timothea, for example, though taken by the Dreen a good few years ago, had still retained some of her self-described “American Mid-Texstern” accent, though only in her English. This was one of several things that marked her as Other among the court. Her French and German were spoken almost perfectly like a native after much time immersed in the court of the King. But the only English she had heard for years was Proper Albian, and given time and immersion, her lexicon would have adapted to match those around her, and perhaps she might have forgotten what she used to sound like.

However long was left on that particular clock, the infuriated rant coming out of the hole in the wall just reset it.

* * *

It was official- Moloch was the worst brother _ ever _ . 

Ok, maybe not  _ ever. _ The title of Worst Brother tended to shift among the various Von Zinzers. The reigning title holder before Moloch  _ yelled in his ear after five hours of sensory deprivation _ had been Omar, the earning of which had also earned him the title of Worst Wingman In The World, an accolade he carried with pride to this day.

Robert, having clambered through the newly made hole, was in the middle of explaining this (in English) to Moloch, and enumerating the various ways in which he’d surpassed Omar, when he was interrupted. He ceased his physical and very rude demonstration of just where Moloch’s ‘wake-up call’ could be stuck to get a better look at the sword that was suddenly in his face. What kind of sword was it? He couldn’t precisely say. He didn’t exactly have access to an encyclopedia at his fingertips anymore, so the main answer he would probably give was “big” and maybe “sharp,” though that would be hard for him to test. Its wielder probably thought it was sharp enough to handle Robert.

Moloch, now with a sword between him and his irate brother, chose to take the opening it presented. “Oh, yeah, I was gonna say- these guys wanted to ask you something.”

Robert’s eyes followed the blade back to its owner, a wall of polished armor plate with a bearded head attached, and flanked by two more walls. “Uh,” he said, eloquently. “Hi there?”

* * *

That didn’t sound like any Albian or German he’d ever heard. Perhaps it was the brutish tongue of the Heterodynes? But Ser Richard didn’t need to know the words to read the body language: His charge, as much as he misliked the man, was being threatened, with several highly unpleasant-looking actions, if the gestures were anything to go by. That he seemed utterly unconcerned did not factor in Ser Richard’s mind. His knight’s honor demanded action. So he drew his arming sword, and used it to separate the two.

As expected, the threats stopped. The banter, however, continued. The guide said something about questions, leading the new arrival to look down Ser Richard’s blade and grunt out what must be an agreement, exasperation evident on his face. Satisfied that this Heterodyne whelp knew how things stood, Richard withdrew the sword and stepped aside for the Lady Timothea.

* * *

There were definitely some ethical questions and concerns, and Timothea was of course going to apologize to this last brother later, but  _ gosh  _ it sure was convenient to have a Large Man With Sword doing what you said. But, the need for Large Men With Swords had now passed.

“Thank you Richard, Farrokh, Lionel. You may return to His Majesty. I will handle this.” Here’s hoping they didn’t-

“Absolutely not.” Of course they did. It was Farrokh who had spoken, a firm believer in the limitations that fealty placed on one’s actions. “His Grace ordered us to accompany you! To leave now would be dereliction of duty!”

Timothea didn’t get migraines, but she could already tell that this would give her one, if it dragged out long enough. “That is true, but his orders were to assist me. I no longer need your assistance, therefore, I am releasing you to return to His Majesty.”

Richard shot back, “You expect us to just leave you with these blackguards? Who knows what these eastern barbarians will do when no one is watching?”

Timothea was about to shoot back a reminder of her fairly reliable invincibility, when a rough voice cut in from behind the knights.

* * *

Why did it have to be French? Why couldn’t the people of the City of Lightning speak something reasonable, and/or something he knew? Whatever, didn’t matter, he was pretty good at conveying meaning through a language barrier. 

Pretty good at picking it up, too- it was clear the lady wanted the boys in plate gone, and they weren’t going when told. Now he just needed to string enough French nouns and verbs together to be understood. ‘Femme’ was woman, ‘Say’ was the same as in Spanish(wasnt it?) and ‘Go’ was…. All-something. Probably an E, there’s a lot of those in French, right? Well, only one way to test it. He reached for the shoulder of the last thug to speak.

* * *

Richard was preparing a rebuttal for whatever arguments his Lord’s pet Fate was about to spew, (probably something about her being able to “take care of herself.” A laughable concept) when they were, the both of them, cut off. A hand, sweaty and stained with grease, came down on his shoulder.  “Ey,” said the man who had been trapped in the wall. He was speaking slowly, clearly unsure of his words. “The… women? _Ja, _ Women, will say, They go? They going? The women will say they going.” He nodded, clearly pleased with his disgusting mangling of Richard’s native tongue. Richard began turning to strike him for his insolence, when he heard an uncomfortably familiar humming sound, uncomfortably close. Richard froze, and noticed that Timothea was now standing in his suddenly much larger shadow. The former prisoner, for his part, merely patted Richard’s shoulder with the hand that didn’t have an implement of some eastern heresy pointed at his back, and repeated “The women will say they going.” The message was clear. And the response to such was obvious.

As mercenaries, all of the Von Zinzers were used to making threats. Luckily, not very used to carrying them out- the usual response to having one’s covalent bonds threatened with dissolution was to comply, maybe try to get out of the way. If they were mad about it, they came back later, usually with reinforcements. So Robert was honestly surprised when one of Tall, Pale, and Sneery’s buddies came out swinging. With a sword, to be specific.


End file.
